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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471823">songbird's king</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh'>itisjosh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>onlypain [52]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Best Friends, Bittersweet, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Developing Friendships, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nicknames, Past Character Death, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Post-Apocalypse, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Understanding, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wilbur Soot-centric, dw boys theres a happy ending :)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:35:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay. You can call me Songbird," he decides. "That's a safe enough name, isn't it? That's safe. It's not close to my actual name. I'm going to go. I'll see you tomorrow.." he waits for a name to be given to him, frowning a little when one is not. </p><p>The man looks away, furrowing his eyebrows together. "Just call me.." he trails off. "I dunno, King, or somethin'. Bye, Songbird."</p><p>Wilbur smiles.</p><p>"Bye, King."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ranboo &amp; Technoblade, Wilbur Soot &amp; Technoblade, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>onlypain [52]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027711</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>403</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>songbird's king</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's been about two months since Tommy died, and it doesn't get any better. It's worse, Wilbur thinks to himself as he crouches down, closing his eyes. Wilbur opens his eyes a second later, watching the birds scatter away from the rest of the graves and headstones, flying off into the sky, flying off and being <em>free</em>. Wilbur wishes that he was free, he wishes he was able to be free. Wilbur wishes that he could take to the skies and leave this hellhole behind. He can't even leave this city, and it fucking sucks. Everything about his life is fucking awful and he hates it and he wishes to the god he doesn't believe in that he could just <em>fucking end it. </em>Wilbur doesn't know why he hasn't yet, he doesn't know why he's still here. He can't raise his gun to his head and pull the trigger, and he doesn't know why. It's like some stupid, invisible force is forcing him to stay alive, and he hates it. Wilbur hates it so much, he hates all of it so, so fucking much. Nothing is the same. Nothing is okay, and the only way for things to be okay would be for Tommy to come back, but he fucking <em>can't</em>, because he's <em>fucking dead</em>. Tommy is dead and gone and it's <em>his</em> fault, and Wilbur doesn't know how he's supposed to get over that. He doesn't think that he'll be able to. </p><p>Wilbur looks over his shoulder, stiffening when he spots a man standing in the archway to the graveyard. He has long pink hair, dyed, and tired eyes. He moves into the graveyard without even looking at him, which Wilbur is thankful for. He watches the man sit down in front of a headstone, opening his mouth, but no words come out. Wilbur understands that better than he would like to. He tried to make himself talk to Tommy when he first came out here, when he first buried him, but he couldn't. He still can't. It's hard to talk to someone who would always respond, but now they won't. He closes his eyes again, not really sure why he does. He should keep himself alert and aware, he needs to pull out his gun or his knife or <em>something</em> and kill this other man, kill this survivor. </p><p>But he can't. </p><p>Wilbur doesn't know why, there's not really a point in keeping the man alive. But he can't bring himself to pull out his stupid fucking gun and pull the trigger. Wilbur laughs, bitter and hollow and angry and hurt, ducking his head. He's always been weak. He wishes that he wasn't weak, but he is. There's nothing he can do about it, either. He's so fucking weak and pathetic, Tommy was always the stronger one between the two of them. He was always stronger than Wilbur could ever hope to be. It's the reason that he's dead. Tommy jumped in front of the zombie that was going to tear out his throat. Tommy shot and killed the zombie, but he died. He died in Wilbur's arms, and his last words weren't even goodbyes, they were in the form of a soft smile and exhausted eyes, a knowing look gracing his face. <em>"It'll be okay, big man. Promise."</em> And then he was gone, he was gone, just like that. He died, and there was nothing Wilbur could do to save him. He put Tommy's body on the ground and he shot him in the fucking head so he wouldn't come back, and then he cried. </p><p>He cried a lot. </p><p>For hours. Days, even. Weeks, probably. Wilbur cried for far too long, and then he managed to get Tommy - Tommy's <em>body</em> - into a proper casket. He grabbed a shovel and tore up the earth and shoved his little brother into the fucking ground and then he just..then he put dirt back over him, and it was done. Wilbur shot and killed his already-dead little brother and buried him, and that was that. Then it was over, it was done. It was that simple. It was so simple burying him, it was so fucking easy. It took him too long to do so, and he cried and had to plug his nose because of the smell, and the thought of it makes him want to throw up, so he <em>needs</em> to stop thinking about, but his mind keeps wandering back to it and he wants to cry, he wants to cry <em>so badly</em>. Wilbur closes his eyes again, shifting uncomfortably. He's positive that the other man in this graveyard has to understand what he's going through. Surely he understands, <em>surely</em>. Wilbur blinks open his eyes, looking up at the sky, watching puffy clouds pass over him. The birds previously there are gone now, they've disappeared. They've gone somewhere better, somewhere safer, probably. Somewhere with food and water. </p><p>Zombies don't hurt animals, Wilbur's learnt. He's watched cats weave throughout hoards, never even getting a glance. But as soon as a hoard picks up the scent of a human, they go fucking feral. They start to scream, they start to hunt. Wilbur's watched far too many people die because they weren't fast enough to escape. Dying to a hoard is the worst way to go, Wilbur things. Thousands of hands tearing at your flesh, tearing you apart. Biting at your throat and ripping you to pieces, pulling off your skin and taking you limb by limb, and all the while, you're awake for it all. You feel everything, the burning and the pain, the agony, the way screams catch in your throat before they tear them out. </p><p>Wilbur blinks, looking away from Tommy's headstone. Dying to a zombie would be a shit way to go. Dying to thousands of them would be even worse. Living is hard, too. Dying would hurt but then it'd be over, but living, <em>living</em> lasts for so fucking long. The pain never stops so long as you're alive. At least when you're dead you stop feeling. At least when you're dead the pain goes away. Wilbur looks over at the other man, watching as he runs his hands over a headstone. The headstone doesn't have a name on it, so whoever he's visiting must have died recently. They must have died in the apocalypse. Wilbur looks away, feeling his breath catch in his throat, his chest aching so badly that he thinks he might collapse and die. It'd be easier that way. Dying would be so much easier than living. Wilbur wishes that he was dead, he wishes a lot of things. Mostly that he was dead. Sometimes he wishes for Tommy to come back, but he's moved on from that - he's moved to wishing he could join his little brother instead of the other way around. </p><p>Wilbur closes his eyes, a choked sob lodging itself in the back of his throat. He pushes himself off of the ground, turning away from the grave. He can't cry, not now. Not in front of someone else, not in front of Tommy. Wilbur wipes away the forming tears with the back of his hand, he bites down on his tongue to distract himself. Physical pain is so much easier to deal with than emotional pain is. He starts to walk, resting his hand on his gun as he slips past the graveyard, sparing one single look back to where the dead lay. The other man is hunched over, and Wilbur can hear soft words coming from his lips. He ignores them - they're not for him. He turns back, and this time, he doesn't look around again. He just keeps walking, forcing himself to move on, forcing himself to leave Tommy behind again.</p><p>It's fine. </p><p>He'll be back tomorrow. </p>
<hr/><p>The man becomes a consistent in his life. Wilbur sits at Tommy's grave and says nothing and tries not to cry, and the other man does the same at his own grave. They don't say anything to each other, and it's probably for the best. Wilbur drags his legs up to his chest, lays his head on one of his knees. He wants to engrave Tommy's name into the headstone, but he's got nothing to engrave it with. A knife would work best, he thinks, but he doesn't want to use one of his good knives for something that'll fade away. He wants something proper, something that will stay. He wants people to remember Tommy, even if they never knew him. </p><p>Tommy deserves to be remembered. He deserves the fucking world. </p><p>Wilbur wonders how long he should stay today. He thinks that he would like to leave early, he would like to leave this entire world early, but he can't. He glances over at the man, the same man who's been there for a week or so now. His hair is still dyed pink, his eyes are still tired. He looks the same. Wilbur supposes that he probably looks the same, too. It's been months since he looked in a mirror. The most he sees of himself is his reflection in muddied pools of water. </p><p>"Who did you lose?" </p><p>Wilbur jerks himself up, sitting straighter. The man's voice is deep and gruff and gritty and filled with a pain that Wilbur recognises all too well. Wilbur looks away, smiling softly at Tommy's headstone. "His name was Tommy," Wilbur says. "He was really fucking stupid and brave and he's the only reason I'm still alive. What about you?" Wilbur asks, looking back over at the man, not entirely sure why he's decided to answer him. He's lonely, he thinks. It's nice to not have to be alone. "Who'd you lose?" He looks back to Tommy's grave, running his fingers over the headstone, wiping off dust and stray pieces of grass and leaves and pollen. The air is a little wet, filled with wind. It's cool out, not hot, not cold. It's the perfect weather. Tommy used to love this weather. He loved the spring, mostly because it wasn't as hot. Tommy fucking hated summer. Wilbur hated summer, too.</p><p>"His name was Ranboo," the man tells him. "He wasn't my blood brother, he just sort of found me. I promised that I'd keep him safe no matter what, and then I..then I couldn't, and I can't stop comin' out here and tryin' to figure out how to stop wantin' to hate myself," the man laughs, bitter and broken. The same sort of laugh that Wilbur recognises. It's the same one he uses, it's the same tune and sound and volume. Grief really does connect everyone together, he thinks. The broken really do seem to find each other. "Does it ever stop?"</p><p>"What, the hating yourself?" Wilbur laughs, looking up at the sky. It's blue, the clouds are white. There aren't as many clouds as there were yesterday, only a few dotting the sky right now. He closes his eyes, letting the wind blow over his face, feeling it pass through his hair. It ruffles his clothes, it moves his trench coat without him even having to move at all. It's nice. It would be nicer if his little brother was alive. "It doesn't stop. The hating yourself, that doesn't stop," Wilbur smiles. "It never stops. You should have protected them, you should have done better. It never stops. You just learn to live with it a little better the more time goes on," he clears his throat, looking back over at the man with the pink hair and exhausted eyes. "It was nice meeting you. Let's agree to never do this again. Just in case."</p><p>Wilbur doesn't think that he has to say what the <em>just in case</em> means. </p><p><em>Just in case they get attached</em>.</p><p>Wilbur can't lose someone else. He can't lose someone else. He would die. The grief would choke him to death, he'd be strangled and bludgeoned and stabbed and shot, he'd be burnt and frayed alive, and he can't do that, not again. The man locks eyes with him, sadly and bitterly. </p><p>Brokenly. </p><p>"I don't want to be alone again," the man murmurs, soft and hurt. Wilbur can't really help but wonder how long he lost his little brother. Must have only been a few months ago, he thinks. Maybe a few weeks. Recently, probably. "How about we just never tell each other our names? It's safer like that. You can't get attached so long as you don't know anythin' about them, right? I don't want to be alone again. I don't think that you do, either," he smiles a little, his lips turning ever so slightly up at the corners. He has a nice smile. He would have a nice smile, Wilbur thinks, it if wasn't stricken with grief and agony and hatred. "Unless I'm wrong?" Wilbur looks away, leaning back, looking back up to the sky. </p><p>"You're not," Wilbur whispers, low enough that he'll be surprised if the man can hear him. "I wish you were, but you're not. Okay," he pauses, tapping his fingers against the ground, wishing that he could block out the warning bells that scream and blare in his head. Wilbur doesn't know what a safe name would be. He doesn't want to go by something stupid, he doesn't want to change his name to accommodate for this man he's just met. He looks up at the birds, he watches as they soar overhead, disappearing to somewhere much, much safer. Wilbur smiles. "Okay. You can call me Songbird," he decides. "That's a safe enough name, isn't it? That's safe. It's not close to my actual name," he sighs, breathing out. Wilbur pushes himself off of the ground, squaring his shoulders. This is the most he's talked in months, he thinks. "I'm going to go. I'll see you tomorrow.." he waits for a name to be given to him, frowning a little when one is not. </p><p>The man looks away, furrowing his eyebrows together. "Just call me.." he trails off. "I dunno, King, or somethin'. Bye, Songbird."</p><p>Wilbur smiles.</p><p>"Bye, King."</p>
<hr/><p>It's raining today. </p><p>Wilbur sits in his trench coat and lets himself get soaked to the bone. He feels his hair drip, he feels water trickle down his face, the rain staining his cheeks. He sits there out in the rain and he doesn't care at all, because what's the point in caring? There is none. There's no point in most things without Tommy. He can hear King by his own grave, by the adoptive brother who he called Ranboo. He looks up at the sky, and Wilbur can't help but smile. If there's one thing he likes about the rain, it's the fact that he can't tell if he's crying or not. His tears mix with the rain, blending together, hiding his tears. </p><p>It's perfect, really. Makes him feel less like shit. Makes him feel less like a failure. "Hey, Songbird," King calls out, turning his head a little. Wilbur smiles a bit at the nickname, wondering if he should stick by that or not. He'd like to tell King his real name, but he knows better. He fucking knows better. Wilbur might be stupid and an idiot and awful and terrible, but he still knows better. "How are you today? How's Tommy?" </p><p>It's routine. </p><p>
  <em>How are you? How's your dead little brother?</em>
</p><p>"Shit," Wilbur answers, just like he always does. "I'd like to bash my head against a rock until I stop moving," he beams, putting on his best smile. He knows how to fake them very well, he'd like to think. Pretending has always been one of his strong suits. "What about you, King? How are you?" He pauses, letting the first words sink in before he speaks the next. "How's Ranboo?" Wilbur asks after that, the rain filling his ears, hitting the front of his face. </p><p>"Still dead," King answers. It's the same thing every single time that they meet. Same words, same tone, same emotion. It's routine, nothing changes. Wilbur hates it, but to be fair, he hates a lot of things. He doubts that he hates this anymore than he hates himself or than he hates being alive, but he would like to think that he does. Makes it a little easier to pretend. "I'm still feelin' awful," King tells him without a moment of hesitation. "Everythin' still feels hopeless. Is that how it feels for you, Songbird?" King assk, tilting his head to the side. "Hopeless? Like nothin' will ever be the same?"</p><p>Wilbur smiles. "Nothing <em>will</em> ever be the same," he tells him. "It's..a lot more difficult than I thought it'd be," Wilbur admits, looking away from King. It's hard to drag his gaze away from the man with pink hair and tired eyes and the sort-of smile. "Losing someone, I mean. It's..hard. It's so fucking hard," he laughs, ducking his head, even though he doesn't want to laugh. None of this is funny. It's not fucking funny. "I thought that I could handle it," he murmurs. "I thought I'd be okay. I thought that it wouldn't be that bad, that I could take it. I thought it'd be okay. I was wrong," Wilbur snorts. "I was so fucking wrong. I can't handle it, though. Coming out here isn't..it's not healthy. It's not healthy, but this is just me fucking hating myself so goddamn much to the point where I- I can't <em>stop</em> coming out here. Tommy.." Wilbur trails off. "He'd never want this for me. Tommy would want me to be okay." </p><p>King nods along with his words. </p><p>Just like he always does. </p><p>"Ranboo would be pissed at me," King admits, voice soft and low. "He would be so angry at me for beatin' myself up, for hurtin' myself like this. For comin' out here. For..for meetin' someone new and not tellin' them anythin' about myself or where I come from, or anythin' like that. But I can't," King breathes out. "You understand. You understand, don't you, Songbird?" He asks, sounding eerily hopeful. "You have to understand. You're the only one who would understand. I'm sorry," King whispers. "I'm really sorry. I'm sorry."</p><p>"I'm sorry, too," Wilbur murmurs. He knows what King is apologising for. He knows better than he would want to. "I shouldn't have talked to you. We should have never have spoken, we should have never met. It would make all of this so much easier. It's going to make all of this so fucking hard," he scoffs. "When one of us eventually dies, it's going to be harder than it should. I'm sorry for that, because it's probably going to be me. You know it'll happen, King. It always does. It's going to be me," Wilbur sighs. "I'm a fucking idiot, I'm so fucking stupid, I'm shit at surviving. You're smart enough to live. You'll be okay." </p><p>King shakes his head, staring down at the ground with such an intensity that Wilbur thinks he might be able to burn a hole through the earth. "I don't have anyone else to live for, Songbird. Ranboo was the person I was livin' for, and now.." he shrugs. "I guess it might be you. He was my only reason I was survivin', that kid..he was the only reason I'm still alive. He gave me a reason to keep goin', you..you know? I've got nothin' left now, I'm alone. What's the point, Songbird? What's the <em>point?</em>" Wilbur shrugs, tapping the ground, digging little patterns into the dirt. </p><p>He likes the smell of rain. He likes the smell of rain on dirt. He doesn't know why. He thinks it might be because of Tommy. Most things that he likes are things he's connected to Tommy. </p><p>"I think that we have each other," Wilbur admits. "I don't like it, but I guess we do. It's not the same. It'll never be the same. But, it's..it's something. It's a start, kind of. King," Wilbur locks eyes with the man, feeling his chest hurt. "When one of us dies, promise me that we'll bury them here. Next to their little brother. Okay? Promise." King smiles, looking away. </p><p>"Promise." </p><p>That's all Wilbur really needs to hear. He stands up, feeling the rain attack him from all angles. He closes his eyes as he looks up at the sky. He stands there for a few moments before starts to walk, shoving his hands in his pockets as he goes.</p><p>"Goodbye, King." </p><p>A pause, one that seems to last for years.</p><p>"Goodbye, Songbird." </p><p>Wilbur smiles, and he keeps walking. </p><p>Never looking back.</p><p>Not even once.</p>
<hr/><p>Wilbur starts to see King outside of the graveyard. He passes him by in the streets sometimes, only giving him a nod before he moves on. He doesn't like staying outside for too long, it makes him uncomfortable. Wilbur's had a difficult time even leaving his house recently, and he doesn't really know why. He used to be able to get up and move and run and do so many things without even breaking a sweat, but now it's just...</p><p>Hard. </p><p>It's draining, tiring. Mentally and physically exhausting. He hates it, and he hates the fact that he doesn't even know what's causing it. Wilbur guesses that it's depression, but he's not the type of person who's supposed to <em>have</em> depression. To be fair, he doesn't know what type of people <em>are</em> supposed to have depression. Wilbur doesn't want to make excuses for himself, and all his life, he's been told that depression is just an excuse, that it's just a lie that people use to justify why they don't leave their houses. He doesn't know if that's true or not, but he's starting to think that he had been lied to in his younger years. It'd make sense, it would explain things.</p><p>King doesn't talk a lot whenever they meet each other in the streets. Both of them are quiet, never opening their mouths to say anything to the other. It's quiet and their heavy silences echo between each other, almost to the point of suffocation. Wilbur thinks that he always feels like he's on the verge of dying, like he's almost always about to collapse and never stand up again. Wilbur thinks that it'd be so much simpler to do that. To just die, to go away forever, to not have to worry about anything anymore. It would be so easy to just leave this fucking world and never ever come back.</p><p>Breathing is hard, Wilbur finds out. Breathing takes energy and he has so little of that to begin with. Breathing is supposed to keep him alive, and yet all it's done is make him feel like he's drowning. He chokes on oxygen and collapses in his bathroom and grabs at the ground, crying and sobbing, trying to suppress the tears, but he never can. He hates that, he hates himself for being weak and for being stupid and <em>pathetic</em>, and there are hundreds of other things that Wilbur hates himself for, but he doesn't think he could list them all off. He shuffles along the road, feeling his feet drag across the pavement. He wishes he could just fall over and die here. He wishes a lot of things. Most of those wishes outline his doom, the other ones are about bringing Tommy back to life. </p><p>Wilbur thinks that he would prefer the first wishes to come true. </p><p>He feels like a zombie, wandering aimlessly around. He's heard them groan and whine and cry, and he wonders if they feel pain. He wonders if the walking corpses are capable of being put through agony just like the living are. Wilbur thinks that it would be so much easier to be dead. He would hate being a zombie, he thinks. He would fucking <em>hate</em> it. He'd have to get King to shoot him, he would have to die. He wouldn't want to be a zombie. He hates the idea of it, he hates the fucking thought of it. He looks away from where he previously was, glancing over his shoulder. King is back there, his back to Wilbur's. He's stood still, and even though there's so much noise in Wilbur's head, he can hear him breathing. That's really the only sign of him still being alive - those faint gasps of air are the one thing that tells Wilbur he's humans. Zombies can cry and bleed and scream, too. They can do most of the things that humans can, but slightly warped. The one thing that zombies can't do is breathe. </p><p>Wilbur is unbelievably jealous of that. He keeps walking, forcing himself to not look back again. It's hard to walk. It's hard to live, it's hard to do most things. Everything is difficult and suffocating and it's all too much, and Wilbur hates it. He hasn't even visited Tommy recently, he's spent so much time inside, crying, breaking down, losing his mind. He's trapped in his head and he's furiously banging against the inside of it, screaming to be let out, begging and sobbing to escape. He hates being trapped inside of his own head, he hates the thoughts that come with it. Wilbur hates so much, he thinks that he's forgotten how to love. </p><p>With a tired sigh, Wilbur breaks the sort-of promise he made only a few seconds ago. He turns back, stares at the back of King's head. "You should come with me," he calls out, hands hanging at his sides, shoulders slouched. King turns, his eyes narrowed, his eyebrows both raised. "Back to my house, I mean," he clarifies. "If you'd want." King is quiet, but King is always quiet, so it's really not much of a surprise. King's lips tug up into a small smile, though his eyes are still exhausted. They always are, they probably always will be. It's just how life works. It's just how their lives work. </p><p>"Are you sure, Songbird?" King asks, tilting his head to the side, just a bit. "I don't want to.." he shrugs, looking away. "Intrude, I guess. We're not even really friends, are we?" Wilbur smiles, holding back that bark of laughter he wants to let free. It settles back down, though his breath catches in his throat a second later. "Songbird?" </p><p>"We're not," Wilbur assures him. "We're not friends, King. Not even close to friends," he turns away, patting the gun on his hip, just to make sure that he knows it's there. It's a comfort. Wilbur doesn't use it that much. There aren't really all that many zombies in this tiny town. He managed to escape the city with Tommy early on, which he's thankful for. They barely made it out alive, only escaping with the clothes on their backs. Wilbur had to figure out how to survive real fucking fast, he had to learn how to use a gun even faster. He had to learn how to kill another human being the fastest. "That's why I'm offering." </p><p>King laughs. It's a short bit of laughter, rumbly and quiet and a little harsh, but he laughs. Wilbur smiles, listening to King's footsteps as the man starts to trail him, though he can barely hear them. He's good at keeping silent, Wilbur thinks. "I suppose I'll come," King moves to stand at his side, tilting his head up a little. Wilbur smiles a bit, not bothering to move ahead of the man. King is regal, in an odd sort of way. He moves like he knows what he's doing, he moves like he's confident in his abilities. He moves as if he has to do so to survive. Maybe he does. "How're you holdin' up, Songbird?" Wilbur smiles at the nickname, not entirely sure why it makes his chest hurt every single time King says it. Nicknames are stupid, he thinks. They're stupid, but at least they're fake. At least they aren't real. </p><p>"Terribly," Wilbur tells him, entirely honest. He stopped lying to King a long time ago. Maybe a month ago. It doesn't feel like it's been that long. He thinks that they met in late January, early February. It's March, now. Barely. "I would like to throw myself in front of a moving truck, but unfortunately," Wilbur beams at him, "there are none. How about you, King? Are you still managing?" </p><p>"Not at all," King beams back at him, a little less tired than he normally looks. "I think I'm doin' even worse than usual. Things are.." he shrugs. "Difficult. A lot more difficult than I thought they'd be, if I'm bein' entirely honest. It sucks." </p><p>"An understatement, really," Wilbur snorts. "Maybe it'll be easier with someone else. We'll make a routine," Wilbur tells him, already having decided that a few seconds back. "And we'll stick to it. We're survivors, we have to start acting like it. I've had enough of my wallowing in pity shtick, I want to be better," he breathes out, feeling his words stick in the back of his throat. He pauses, biting down on his tongue for a moment. "I want to be okay again. I'm sure you'd like the same, King."</p><p>King smiles at him, exhausted as usual. "I would," he agrees. "I don't really think that's gonna happen anytime soon. Unless you've got some sort of hidden magic trick up your sleeve, Songbird?" Wilbur laughs, though the joke really isn't funny. </p><p>"No," he smiles, feeling less like he's suffocating. "Not at all."</p>
<hr/><p>Their routine is shit and Wilbur wants to fucking scream. </p><p>He turns away from King, firmly digging his fingers into his sheet. He squeezes his eyes shut and squares his shoulders, refusing to move. "Songbird, come <em>on,</em>" King's voice is low and annoyed, and Wilbur wants to punch him in the goddamn throat. "You need to get up. Songbird, seriously. Come on."</p><p>"Fuck you!" Wilbur shouts, snapping his head around to face King, narrowing his eyes. "You don't fucking understand how hard it is to get up! To fucking <em>move!</em> I want to die, and you're concerned about me <em>moving?</em>" He sneers, feeling tears stream down his face. He used to be so good at hiding them. He used to be so good at not crying. He used to be strong. He used to be important. He used to be able to breathe without feeling like he's drowning. "Fuck you! Fuck<em> you!</em> You're fucking useless, you piece of fucking shit! I fucking hate you, I <em>fucking hate you!</em>" He screams, feeling the energy drain out of him with those words. </p><p>King stares at him, unblinkingly and unimpressed. "Okay," he murmurs, and Wilbur feels hands on his legs. He tries to fight, he tries to punch and kick and shout at King to <em>fucking stop</em>, but he doesn't. King drags him out of bed, quite literally. Wilbur feels the wooden floor hit his back, wincing. "Come on," King moves towards him, scooping him up into his arms. "Let's go to the balcony. That's probably enough for today." </p><p>"Put me the fuck down, you stupid- you fucking..you.." </p><p>His words and his resolve and his confidence, they all break into sobs and tears and cries. Wilbur sobs into King's shoulder as the man picks him up and starts to move. Wilbur feels spring air on the back of his neck, he feels himself take in a breath. It's cold. He feels cold. He can't remember the last time he felt warm. It's fucking pathetic, this is all so fucking pathetic. The fact that he has to be <em>babied</em>, that he has to be carried out of his bed like a goddamn <em>child</em>, it's so fucking sad. </p><p>Wilbur cries, he chokes on his sobs. He doesn't try to fight it anymore, he doesn't care anymore. King says nothing, King always says nothing whenever this happens. </p><p>It happens a lot. </p><p>It happens a <em>lot</em>. </p><p>Far too often, Wilbur thinks. Far too fucking often. He hates it and he hates himself and sometimes he'd like to think that he hates King, but he <em>doesn't</em>, and he <em>wishes he did</em>. It would be so much easier to blame it all on King, to blame it on someone else other than himself. Wilbur wishes he could manage to do that. He wishes he didn't have to hate himself and everything but King. Wilbur is exhausted, he's so tired, he hates so much, and he just..</p><p>"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry." </p><p>King hums something, too soft for Wilbur to hear. "It's okay," King tells him. "I do the same to you." </p><p>It's true, he does. There are days where King gets so angry and pissed off that he starts to lash out. He throws punches, he breaks things, he screams and yells and threatens Wilbur. Their friendship, partnership, is so fucked. It's fucked and complicated and Wilbur doesn't think that it should be like this, but it is, and he can't fix it. Maybe there's nothing to fix, maybe this is just how it is. Maybe this is just how their lives are supposed to be. Wilbur wiggles his way out of King's arms, and he stares out at the city below him. It really isn't a city, it's more of a town. </p><p>Wilbur watches trees sway in the breeze. He can see some of the leaves fall off of their branches, falling down to the ground before being swept back up by the wind. It's nice. Peaceful, even. The radio in their kitchen is playing a low tune that Wilbur can't quite recognise. It's enough to remind him where he is. It's enough to remind him that he's still alive, that King is with him, that King is by his side. He isn't okay. Wilbur doesn't really think that he'll ever be okay, but at least he's alive. Even if he doesn't think he really wants to be, he is, and that's something he's going to have to deal with, and that's..that's okay. </p><p>It feels like he can breathe. Barely, but the feeling is there. </p><p>
  <em>Barely.</em>
</p><p>"Tomorrow will be better," Wilbur says, he lies. He's lying. Wilbur really only says it to fool himself, and it doesn't even work. He doesn't know why he says it in the first place. To use as false hope, he thinks. "It'll be better."</p><p>"Yeah," King smiles, looking at him with tired, exhausted eyes. His hair is a little less pink. He hasn't dyed it in a month or so. "It will be." </p><p>There are days where Wilbur can't get out of bed. King grabs him by the legs and drags him to the ground and carries him to the balcony and makes him look outside. There are days where Wilbur tells King that he hates him. There are days that Wilbur screams and yells, there are days where he screams at King and the screaming never seems to end. King is unbelievably patient with him on those days, he's so kind. </p><p>Wilbur hates him.</p><p>He hates King, but not because he's hateable. </p><p>He hates King because he's kind. He hates him because he's sweet and understanding and caring and..he's nice. He's too fucking nice. King is patient and unrelentlessly understanding, and Wilbur doesn't understand how he manages to do it. Wilbur knows that he's difficult, he's <em>so</em> fucking difficult. And yet still, King remains. He's had so many chances to leave Wilbur behind, to leave him to die, and yet he hasn't. </p><p>Every single day he comes into Wilbur's room and tells him to get up. Every single day he waits there, he stands there in silence, until Wilbur does. </p><p>King says it's because Wilbur does the same for him, but it really isn't the same. Wilbur just brunts the blows, he stands tall and lets King scream and cry and lash out until he feels better. Sometimes he'll go to King's room and wait for him to get up. He'll make them breakfast and he'll sometimes have to shove the food down King's throat, or else he won't eat. King does the same for him. </p><p>Wilbur wishes it was easier to hate King. He wishes King made it easy to hate him. </p><p>Life is so fucking difficult, and it's even worse when Wilbur has the constant knowledge that his friend is going to die some day hanging over his head. King is going to die and there's nothing Wilbur will be able to do to stop it. He didn't want to be friends with King. He wants to hate him. He wants to hate him so badly, but he can't. King doesn't make it easy, and Wilbur doesn't want to spend time and energy trying. Everything is so exhausting and draining, and it's just..it fucking <em>sucks</em>. </p><p>Wilbur stares out at the town, wiping away tears with the backs of his hands. Maybe tomorrow will be better than today. </p><p>He can hope, at least.</p>
<hr/><p>Wilbur wakes up to the sound of faint crying coming from his balcony, and he's immediately out of his bed. He grabs his guitar that's always by his nightstand, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he moves to the balcony. He pushes open the door, glances down at King. King doesn't look up at him. He looks out at the town in front of them, he smiles a little. It's not that bad out tonight. </p><p>Wilbur runs his fingers down the strings, humming softly to himself. He would have liked to perform in front of audiences before the world went to shit. Wilbur always thought that he would manage to make it big in music, sort of. He thought that, if he pushed himself every single day, he'd manage to do good things. Not great things, just good. He sways a little on his feet, closing his eyes as he tries to figure out what he wants to sing. He's got so many old songs, he has journals upon journals of lyrics written out. Half of them don't make sense, half of them are stupid and gross and bad, but Wilbur keeps them anyways. </p><p>Nostalgia is a powerful drug, he's learnt. </p><p>"He never had cool stories," Wilbur smiles, nearly laughing at the words. They're so dumb. He hates them, he hates the lyrics and the song and everything about it. But it's so unbelievably <em>him</em>, and he thinks that's why he hates it. He can't remember when he wrote it - at the beginning of the end of the world, he thinks. "He doesn't make your heart beat," he taps his foot against the ground, watching as the sun starts to rise. "You used to love his mystery, but now he's just exhausting," Wilbur looks up at the sky, he watches as the birds start to fly by. "Another day spent, just laying in his room," it's early. Earlier than normal. Four in the morning, probably. Maybe three. "Stench of incense, and some undelivered food." </p><p>King looks up at him, a tired, exhausted smile curling up on his lips. </p><p>"And she thought, what if he thinks I'm the one? And I'll be forced to rot away, with him and obsessions of trivial things, like the amount of fucking love hearts I finish a text message with," Wilbur tilts his head up, closing his eyes. "And when you hold his hands, it doesn't feel like flying. And when you take his breath away, he might as well be dying. And you're dying to breathe, you're trapped in his cage, and it's shrinking," Wilbur locks eyes with King, humming a little less, focusing on the words instead. "And she thought, what if he just never leaves? What if he doesn't get the message, and he doesn't hear my pleas?" He pauses for a brief moment, looking back out at the town. "So she just starting screaming." </p><p>King, per usual, is silent. He always is. </p><p>"Why can't he just bore me to death?" Wilbur sings, feeling his throat seize up. "Oh, why can't he just bore me to death?" </p><p>And just like that, it's over. Lyrics are done, the song is finished. Wilbur still plays, he still plays the chords to the song, just over and over and over again, because it still helps. He doesn't stop until King tells him to, he never has. King looks up at him and nods once, and that's enough for Wilbur to know. He finishes, setting his guitar down a second later. "Better?" He asks, keeping his voice low and soft. His throat hurts. He should have gotten something to drink. </p><p>"Yeah," King smiles, running a hand through his hair. "Thank you, Songbird." Wilbur smiles back at him, leaning forwards, resting his arms on the balcony railing. </p><p>"Of course, King. What else are friends for?" </p><p>The word feels heavy and awkward and wrong on his tongue. </p><p><em>Friends</em>. </p><p>And yet, Wilbur thinks, somewhere deep inside of his heart, it feels <em>right</em>. </p>
<hr/><p>Life isn't better. </p><p>It isn't worse, either. </p><p>Wilbur sits on the balcony floor, his legs hanging past the railing. He hears King shift behind him, he hears the door shut. He smiles a little, craning his head back to look at his friend. His brother, if he thinks on it enough. Wilbur pushes down those thoughts as fast as he possibly can, pretending like they don't exist. It's easier like that. "Hey, Songbird," King smiles at him, waving a hand. He sits down by his side, moving to put his own legs through the railing. "What have you been up to? How long have you been out here? You don't get up this early. Not very often. You all good, Songbird?" </p><p>The concern is genuine. It's always been genuine, Wilbur thinks. He nods, tapping his fingers against the concrete, feeling a low hum settle in the back of his throat. The silence is heavy between them, but it's not suffocating. It's freeing, almost. It feels comfortable and nice, filled with cool spring air. It's borderline summer now, and Wilbur really isn't looking forwards to that. May is slipping out of his grasp all too quickly, and he's not ready for the warmer weather than June and July will bring him. He feels something nagging at the back of his skull, urging him to say something, anything. </p><p>"Songbird isn't my real name." Wilbur says, and he doesn't know why he does. King raises an eyebrow at him, looking amused, albeit slightly confused. </p><p>"I..figured," King laughs, ducking his head for a second. "That was the entire point of it, right? To not be your real name? So we wouldn't get attached?" King smiles, leaning back. He tilts his head up, and Wilbur can't help but follow his gaze for a moment. "I guess it's a little too late for that, isn't it? I guess we broke that promise, huh?" Wilbur smiles, swallowing back the words he wants to say. The stars twinkle above him, dancing and shining in his vision. </p><p>He breathes out, and for the first time in months, he feels like he's breathing new air. </p><p>The bitter taste of recycled air leaves his mouth, replaced with fresh, cool air. </p><p>Spring air. </p><p>It tastes like rain. </p><p>Wilbur grins, feeling his heart do that stupid thing where it stutters a few times too many. He looks down at the town below him, shifting a little. "My name isn't Songbird," Wilbur repeats, nervousness and anxiety pooling in his stomach and chest. "My name isn't Songbird. It's Wilbur." </p><p>There's a long pause that stretches on for years. </p><p>"My name is Wilbur Soot." </p><p>A beat of silence passes them by, ringing fills his ears. </p><p>He's taken a leap of faith, and now he's relying on King to reach out and grab him. </p><p>"Oh," King murmurs, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. "I.."</p><p>"My name is Wilbur Soot," he repeats, "and I want you to call me that. I want you to call me by my name. Not Songbird, that's..that's not my name. Not anymore. My name is Wilbur." </p><p>Silence.</p><p>More ringing. </p><p>King breathes out, and it feels like something has been broken. "Wilbur it is, then," King smiles at him. "I mean, Songbird and Wilbur are pretty close, just sayin'," he grins, and Wilbur can't help but do the same, a huge smile splitting his face in half. "So, Wilbur," King stands back up, offering him a hand. "Let's go make breakfast or somethin', yeah?" </p><p>"Yeah," Wilbur grins, grabbing King's hand, pulling himself up. "Let's." </p><p>And Wilbur breathes in again, and for the second time in months, he breathes in fresh air. </p><p>It tastes like hope.</p>
<hr/><p>Wilbur thinks that it's sort of funny how they always manage to meet early in the morning. Of course, they see each other throughout the day. They live together, they work together, they talk together. They're <em>together</em> all of the time, of course they see each other throughout the rest of the day. But early mornings seem the be the time that they always end up meeting, and he sort of thinks it represents something. </p><p>He leans forwards, watching the sun slowly start to rise again, watching as the stars shimmer in the sky and move in little patterns that don't really make sense. Wilbur smiles, closing his eyes for a brief second. It's summer, now. Spring has long since passed them, and he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. The air is warmer for the most part now, but right now, in this exact moment, it's cool. Cold summer air moves over him, ruffling his hair and rustling his clothes. It's nice. So many things in his life are so much nicer than he ever thought that they would be, and it's..it's perfect, really. </p><p>Perfect might not be the best word to describe it. Life is still shit. Life sucks and there are moments where he wishes he wasn't here, but not as often. </p><p>King helps with that. </p><p>King helps a lot. </p><p>"Hey," King waves at him, moving to stand next to him. "Couldn't sleep?" Wilbur shrugs, giving him a look. "Fair," King laughs, holding up his hands. "There's..actually somethin' that I think I wanna talk to you about, if that's okay?" </p><p>"Of course," Wilbur frowns a little. "You can talk to me about anything, King-"</p><p>"That's not my name," King blurts out. "My..my name is Techno. Technoblade. It's not King. My name isn't King." </p><p>Wilbur feels like he's been hit by three trains all at once. </p><p>"My name is Techno." </p><p>He can't <em>breathe</em>.</p><p>"And, um, I'd like it if you could call me that." </p><p>
  <em>Techno.</em>
</p><p>Wilbur feels his heart slam in his chest, over and over and over again, the thumping rhythmic and nearly driving him insane. He never thought that King - <em>Techno </em>- would trust him with his real name. Wilbur thought he'd be calling the man by his nickname for the rest of their lives, and he had made peace with that, he never needed to know his real name, he never pushed for it. </p><p>And yet, just like that, Techno has told him. </p><p>Just like that. </p><p>Wilbur smiles, turning to face Techno. The name echoes in his head and it sounds <em>right</em>, it feels <em>so right</em>, it <em>works</em>. "Okay," Wilbur smiles at him. "Okay, Techno." </p><p>The grin that splits Techno's face is worth more than Wilbur could ever begin to give.</p>
<hr/><p>Life is fucked up and difficult, and a lot of the time Wilbur wishes he could quit. </p><p>And then he sees Techno, then he sees his best friend laugh at him or smile or make some offhand comment or joke, and suddenly, life isn't so bad.</p><p>Of course, there are so many days that are awful and bad and horrible, but they're not as often anymore. Instead of Wilbur being unable to get out of bed every day, it's every few days. There are weeks in between the bad days now, and it's so much easier. Life is easier. It's not <em>easy</em>, but it isn't as bad as it used to be. Summer isn't nearly as shit as it usually would be, and Wilbur is convinced that's because he's got Techno by his side. Admittedly, he never thought he would be able to say or think that. Wilbur never thought he would get better. He never thought things would get better. </p><p>But they <em>have</em>, and all of it is because of Techno. </p><p>He sits in bed, humming softly to himself as he strums his hands down his guitar, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Wilbur opens them, glancing out to his, their, balcony. Once again, it's early in the morning. A little later than usual, but still early nonetheless. Seven, probably, maybe eight. The sun is nearly in the sky, but not quite yet. It'll be up there soon enough, he thinks. Wilbur can hear Techno shuffling in his room, probably having just woken up. They've both been sleeping better, it seems. It's nice to not be woken up by constant nightmares, it's nice to not wake up screaming. It's nice to not wake up and feel like he can't breathe.</p><p>Wilbur remembers a time where he felt like he was suffocating with every single breath of air that he took. </p><p>He remembers a time where he felt like he was breathing recycled air. </p><p>And now, <em>now</em>, he thinks, those times are long past him. </p><p>There are still some days where it feels like the world is on his chest, threatening to crush him underneath of its weight, but those days don't happen nearly as often. He thinks that he's happier now. He's as happy as he thinks he can get, and that's more than enough for him. Wilbur never thought that he would make it this far. he never thought he'd manage to fight through all the bad times to see the light that everyone told him about. </p><p>Yet here he is. </p><p>It took him a couple weeks to get used to calling Techno <em>Techno</em>, rather than King, but he managed pretty quickly. He thinks that he likes Techno a lot better than King, anyways. They never really were their nicknames, Wilbur thinks. He was never really Songbird. Techno was never really King. They were personas they put on, masks to hide the way that they really felt. They were superglued masks, barely taped together. It feels nice to not have to wear it anymore, Wilbur thinks. </p><p>It feels nice to breathe again. </p><p>"You're up late," Techno announces as he walks into the room. "Unless you've been up for a while now, and I'm actually the one who's up late," he laughs, and Wilbur grins at him, tapping his fingers against the neck of his guitar. "What're you up to today, Wilbur? Already pullin' out the sad boy songs? Sad boy hours?" Techno teases, shoving him a little. </p><p>"Nah," Wilbur grins back at him, "Happy boy hours, Techno. Happy boy hours. My hands just.." he shrugs. "Felt empty, I guess. It's hard to describe." Techno nods, smiling at him.</p><p>"I'm glad," Techno beams at him, sitting down next to him. "You ready for breakfast? I'm thinkin', uh..pancakes, maybe? Eggs? Some frozen waffles? I mean," Techno grins. "I'd say those frozen Eggo waffles are a real delicacy, I mean-"</p><p>"Shut the fuck up," Wilbur laughs, shoving his best friend away from him. "Get outta here, old man. I'll come out in a bit. I just want to finish this."</p><p>Techno laughs, standing up, raising his hands in fake defence. "Okay, okay! I see how it is," he grins. "I'll see you soon, Wilbur."</p><p>"See you soon, Techno." Wilbur waves him goodbye, smiling to himself as he finishes strumming. He feels like he's finally home. It took him a long time before he was able to call this house a home again. After Tommy's death, it didn't feel like a home, it felt like a casket. Like his own personal graveyard. Techno turned it back into a home, he filled it with life and with new memories, and he helped Wilbur's old wounds heal, they've finally started to scar over. Of course, they're always going to be there, waiting to be picked back open, but right now, they're not nearly as awful as they used to be. The pain is duller now, the memories aren't as sharp. His grief is less controlling. </p><p>Life isn't perfect.</p><p>But it's certainly getting there.</p>
<hr/><p>"Hey, Tommy." Wilbur crouches down in front of his little brother's grave. It's the first time in months, almost a year, since he's come to visit. It's been harder for him, recently. His good days started to fray, and he found himself stuck in bed for weeks on end. Techno had to drag him out of his bed and down the stairs, carrying him the entire way outside, forcing him to stand there for a few minutes before pulling him back in. It was shit, but it's something that they have to do. Wilbur knows this. </p><p>But he's better now. He's doing alright. </p><p>"I'm sorry I haven't really come to visit much," he laughs, ducking his head. "It's been sort of hard. I think that you understand. You understand a lot. I mean," he pauses, sighing a little. "You <em>did</em>. You used to understand. You probably still do, if I'm being honest. If there's a god or a heaven or <em>something</em> out there, there's no fucking way you aren't watching me from, like, the clouds. You sneaky little shit," Wilbur grins, reaching out to brush off some of the dust off of Tommy's grave. "I met this guy. His name is Techno. Technoblade. Tommy," he grins, staring down at the dirt. The grass around Tommy is green, filled with little blue flowers, a couple dandelions sprouting around the headstone. "You would have fucking <em>loved </em>him." </p><p>Wilbur smiles, leaning back on his heels. "Seriously, Tommy. You two would have gotten along so goddamn well. I think that you'd have thought of him as, like, your other older brother. The less cool brother, obviously, 'cause I would have been the cool one," Wilbur grins. "Obviously. But, yeah, really. You two would have gotten along really fucking well, and it sucks that you're never going to be able to meet. You would have loved him. He would have loved you. Sometimes I pull out old albums and stuff, I show him old pictures. He calls you Toms, sometimes. It's.." Wilbur sighs, tilting his head up, staring at the sky. "You really would have loved him, Tommy. Really." </p><p>"I love him," Wilbur murmurs. "Not in that way, you sick fuck. No, I mean..he's my brother, you know? He's probably the only reason that I'm still alive, if I'm being entirely honest with you. It's been about..a year, now. I think," he pauses, tapping his fingers against his brother's headstone. "A year and a few odd months. It's April right now. I think you died in January of last year. I'm not really sure about the day," he admits. "But that month was really fucking hard for me. I'm sure you can put the pieces together as of to why it was difficult. It doesn't even feel like a year without you, Tommy. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday, and other days it feels like it was thousands of years ago. I'm not really sure if that's normal or not, but it's what I've got to deal with, so I'll just deal with it. That's all you really can do, you know?"</p><p>He sighs, though his smile doesn't manage to wipe itself off his face. "Life is pretty shit sometimes. But not all the time. It's pretty good, actually," Wilbur tells him, and he's being honest. "It used to be awful, but right now..it's pretty good. I like it. I like my life right now. I wish you were still with me, but I can manage without you now. It took me a long time, but I'm doing a lot better. Techno is a huge help, really. He talks me down from panic attacks and shit like that. He quite literally drags me out of bed, which you'd think would be funny, but it really isn't. It's hard to do normal day-to-day things, but for the most part..it's gotten better. It's getting better." </p><p>"It'll be okay eventually," Wilbur smiles. "I just have to get through the hard days to see the light, you know? I hate that fucking phrase so much, Tommy, but it's kind of true. How are you supposed to see the light if you don't even make it out of the station, right?" Wilbur rolls his eyes. "It's still really weird talking to you. I love you, I really do, but it's..weird. Talking to someone who will never talk back. I think you'd understand, if you were still here. But, uh, but you're not, so there's not really a point in acting like you are. But here we are," he laughs. "I guess it isn't <em>really</em> acting like you're here. I know you're dead. I can say the words now, Tommy. I can say the words without crying. You're dead, and that's okay. I miss you all the fucking time, but I can accept it. I can accept it now, I can accept that you're gone. It took me a really, really long time, but I can do it now. I think you'd be proud of me." </p><p>Wilbur grins, glancing back up at the sky for a few seconds. "Life's pretty good right now. I think you would like it. This place doesn't really get zombies anymore, so it's not as bad. It's sort of difficult finding food, so we've started to go out a little further, but otherwise.." he shrugs. "I don't really mind it here anymore. You'd like this place a lot. We've cleaned it up as best as we can. Little bit too late to save the planet, but hey," Wilbur grins at the headstone. "Better late than never, right? Right. You know, Tommy, I also think you would really like what I did with the house. Your room is untouched, don't worry. It's still a fucking mess. I can't believe you managed to get that many soda cans under your bed, holy <em>shit</em>, dude. I repainted a lot of the walls, I fixed up some of the loose screws on the doors and shit like that. It's just a bunch of little things, but those little things all end up adding up." </p><p>He goes silent for a few minutes. </p><p>Wilbur stands up. </p><p>"Okay, Tommy. I love you. I love you a lot, okay? You're my little brother, you're a little fucking shit, but you're my little brother. I miss you. But, um, I'm doing okay now. It's going to take me a lot longer until I've actually healed, but I'm going good. It took a long time, but we're getting there. You'd be proud. Love you, dumbass. I'll come visit you sometime later, okay? Promise." </p><p>He turns away and starts to walk, meeting Techno at the gates that lead to the graveyard. Techno smiles at him, softly and knowingly. </p><p>"How did it go?" He asks, voice quiet. </p><p>Wilbur smiles. "It went okay. I'm doing pretty good, Techno. Thank you."</p><p>"It wasn't all me," Techno smiles at him. "You did a lot of it on your own, Wilbur. Proud of you. Now," he beams, motioning to the unlooted stores a little further past their home. "Wanna go pick up a snack?" </p><p>Wilbur laughs, ducking his head. "Yeah. Let's go." </p><p>He walks, they both do, and he leaves the graveyard behind him. </p><p>But this time, unlike the last, something is different. He has someone with him now. Wilbur has Techno. He smiles to himself, feeling his heart soar a little. Wilbur is going to be okay. He's certain of that. </p><p>So long as he has Techno by his side, he'll be okay. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello lads heres your longer fic for the month LMAO</p><p>long comments are POG AS FUCK holy SHIT i love long comments (dont feel obligated though LMAO)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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